Beware the Cougars
by PuffPiece
Summary: While Dean recovers from an injury, the boys face an unexpected predator of the nonlethal variety.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

 _Shit,_ Dean thinks idly as the rocky terrain beneath his feet gives way to nothingness, _this is so not going to end well._

He can't help the tortured scream that's ripped from his lungs as his left knee crumbles in a blinding flash of pain, freefall halted before his body can prepare any kind of compensatory tuck and roll. He's not even quite sure how it happened; one minute he's chasing what they're pretty sure is a Harpie, the next minute he's on the ground, trying to simultaneously curl around his injured limb while keeping it perfectly still. He clenches his teeth, biting back the threat of a bilious appearance of this morning's breakfast burrito while taking deep shaky breaths that end in strangled half sobs.

Once the initial threat of passing out has become less of a reality, his senses allow him to take stock of his situation. He's lying on his left side, face pressed into the loamy dirt of the forest floor, left knee bent and clasped tightly between his hands as if he can hold it together with sheer will. Because he's pretty sure that loud "Pop" wasn't a good thing.

"Son of a …." The rest of his favored catch-all phrase is diluted by a quick inhalation and a muffled groan when he tries to change positions.

The rustling of the underbrush barely registers until a familiar voice calls his name from somewhere above him.

"Dean!" Sam's voice comes closer as he continues to call out until Dean can finally muster up the necessary voice to guide his brother to his whereabouts.

"Sammy," he grinds out, his voice like gravel.

Sam breaks through the foliage, barely pulling himself back from careening over the same edge that sent Dean to his current predicament.

"Oh, shit, man! You okay?" Sam asks as he stutters down the embankment in a controlled fall; the question is an automatic given their line of work and it's popped out of his mouth before he even registers that he's thought it.

Arriving at his brother's side, he takes a sweeping glance over Dean, notes the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the rapid breathing, and the utter stillness of his brother. Sam knows to be most afraid when his brother is quiet and still. "Alright. It's okay." he says quietly, not sure which of them he's comforting. The lack of obvious blood, combined with Dean's coherence (if you consider Dean's quiet mumblings for Sam not to fucking touch him coherent) settles Sam's nerves at least a bit and allows him to make it through to the second level of triage.

"Leg?" he asks, zeroed in the source of Dean's agony.

Dean nods, eyes still squeezed shut. "Knee", he gasps, still working to get his breathing under control.

"Okay, let me see." He pries Dean's hands away from his knee, then gently but swiftly rolls him onto his back before he can protest. The motion threatens to take Dean over the edge of consciousness and his hands scramble before digging into the moist earth beneath him while his back arches in an attempt to get away from the pain.

Sam makes short work of examining Dean's knee, having to slice through the leg of his jeans to get a clear view of the rapidly swelling joint. They've both had enough injuries to know when something's bad and this one sure isn't good. Dean's knee jiggles under Sam's probing fingers like a piece of well-cooked spaghetti, too much motion in almost every direction. _Shit._

Dean visibly relaxes when Sam stops poking at his injured joint and is able to make eye contact with Sam through the crack of one eyelid. "How bad?" he asks, although he already suspects.

"Hospital," Sam confirms.

Dean takes a few steadying breaths before making a belated plea to Sam. "Come on Sammy, no hospital." He gives a poor imitation of a grin, adding, "It's just a leg. I've got another one."

Sam's Bitch Face implies the level of stupidity that is his brother, but he decides not to argue the point. Shotgun shuts his cakehole and Dean's not driving anywhere. Besides, Dean didn't say anything about an Urgent Care. Sam does love his loopholes. "Fine," he says, with an eye roll.

Once he's garnered Sam's promise, Dean extends his arms and plants his right foot, allowing Sam to pull him upright while he does his best to hold his left up off of the ground. Sam quickly gets under his brother's shoulder, wrapping his other arm through his belt loop, offering as much assistance as he can. Before they get situated, however, Dean's left leg reflexively tries to help him balance and the crippling pain almost takes out his other leg. Dean's free arm jerks to Sam's chest, grabbing hold of his shirt and he turns his head into his brother's shoulder, biting back another threatened sob.

"Okay, easy does it," Sam says when they finally begin to make their way back to the Impala. "At least you took the shortcut," he says, drawing Dean's eyes from where he's focused on his footing to the Impala, Dean's "shortcut" down the embankment the more direct route versus the one they'd taken into the woods earlier that morning.

"Of course, Sammy," Dean replies with a shaky smile, "I always know what I'm doing."

It's slower than slow going - Sam thinks there's an inchworm that's actually outpacing them. He guesses he's supporting more than half of Dean's weight (wisely holding his tongue about laying off of the burgers) and the fact that his brother still isn't really talking does nothing to quell the alarm bell's in Sam's head. And so he starts to idly chatter.

Dean considers telling Sam to _Shut the fuck up,_ but Dean's not really listening anyway, brain cells otherwise occupied on more important matters. _Don't puke. Right foot. Don't pass out. Hop. Don't puke. Right foot. Don't pass out. Hop._

The brothers give a collective sigh when they finally reach their Knight in Shining Black Armor and Dean drapes himself across the top of the car, as much to layer his girl in kisses as a way to keep himself propped upright and off of his left leg. He doesn't even put up a fuss when Sam ushers him into the back seat, just allows Sam to prop his leg up on a couple of blankets and lays his arms over his face while he commences deep breathing. Sam quickly slides into the driver's seat, glances into the rearview mirror taking in his brother's pasty complexion and sweat-stained T shirt, and high tails it towards the nearest Sam-approved medical facility.

()0()0()0()0()

The Urgent Care is decently busy, but it's amazing how quickly you get attention when you've got a white-faced moaning lump of a brother draped around your shoulder. The fact that Dean's now cursing a blue streak hastens the process even further along, lest the numerous children waiting to be seen for strep throat and ear infections become permanently scarred by his invectives. When one little boy looks up at his mother with wide eyes and asks "Mommy, am I a son of a bitch?", the receptionist makes a beeline to the back and the next thing they know, Dean's being ushered into an exam room.

He makes it through not one but three knee examinations (Sam's managed to find a facility that trains medical students and residents; Dean is not amused) and the poor x-ray technician almost gets punched out after he makes Dean's leg move in directions it really, really doesn't want to go. Probably would have too, if Dean's ass hadn't gotten a shot of some miracle liquid to take the edge off.

Said miracle liquid also provides just enough pain relief that Dean thinks it wouldn't be a bad idea to test out his leg again. He's wrong. His knee folds like an accordion, not taking any of his weight, and his pinwheeling arms latch hold of Sam as he rushes to prevent Dean's inevitable faceplant. Dean's eyes are so wide the whites are almost out of proportion to the iris and pupil while his mouth is open in a silent scream; Sam thinks he may have to give his brother rescue breaths if he doesn't start sucking air pretty soon.

Sam gives him a gentle shake and Dean's breathing slowly comes back in line, a sheen of sweat reforming on his forehead as he deep breaths his way back from the edge of "Oh dear God, what was I thinking?" Dean makes his way back up onto the exam table, assisted heavily by his crutch of a brother, and decides to give his leg the rest of the night off.

And now he's awaiting his discharge paperwork, knee heavily bandaged in an ACE wrap, black knee brace Velcroed in place, and aluminum crutches at his side.

"Alright then, Mr. Hanson," his nurse says, handing over the paperwork for his signature. She reads off of his instruction sheet in a bored monotone voice, "Keep the leg elevated, use Tylenol or Motrin for mild to moderate pain and the Percocet for severe pain," she says, handing over a prescription for said medication, "ice it, no walking on it," she says nodding to the crutches, "and you have an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon in three days."

"Ummm Hummmm," Dean answers noncommittally, signing his release before foisting the clipboard back at the nurse and grabbing his crutches. Sam gives her a reassuring smile, promising that his brother will be on his best behavior.

"Ummm Hummmm," the nurse replies with a raised eyebrow and a stern look over her half-glasses. This isn't her first day on the job.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean glances longingly at the motel bed, wanting nothing more than to fall into it and forget this day ever happened. He considers just crawling (gingerly) into bed fully clothed, then gets a good look at himself as he crutches past the mirror over the television.

Dirt streaks cover the left side of his face, he's got sweat staining his T shirt around his collar and under his armpits, and his jeans look like they got stuck in a shredder. He hangs his head a little in dismay, then quickly brings it back upright, the pungent stench of his own BO bringing tears to his eyes.

"Dude, lay down!" Sam barks, bringing the rest of their bags into the room. They hadn't been planning to stick around this town, but Dean's leg has made other plans.

"Man, I reek. I need a shower." Dean crutches over to where Sam's slung his bags, pulling out a clean pair of boxers and a relatively fresh T shirt.

The boys have seen their fair share of ick, and Sam agrees that his brother is not wrong on this one. It's just going to be a bit more of a bitch than usual. He takes in his brother's still pale complexion and the white-knuckled grip he has on his crutches. "Need any help?" he asks, not really thrilled with the particular of what that will entail but willing to help his big brother in any way he can.

"Dude. No." Dean knows his brother is just trying to be helpful, but if his leg is anywhere near as bad as those doctors at the Urgent Care place thought it might be, he's going to be in for a world of hurt. And in need of a lot of help from Sam. Which he wants to delay as long as possible.

So he crutches his way into the cramped bathroom, props his crutches just inside the closed door, and holds onto the sink in order to hop over to the tub. He plunks himself down on the edge and carefully removes the brace and the underlying ACE wrap before not so gracefully shimmying his way out of his pants. He has to bite his lip a couple of times, drawing blood, when he has to put even the slightest pressure on his left leg in order to get his jeans off of his right leg. _Crap – damn knee feels like a slip and slide._

He swivels himself around to face into the tub and begins cursing again at the lack of anything whatsoever to hold onto. Except the shower curtain. Probably not the best idea. It would be humiliating enough to slip in the shower, but to get strangled by the shower curtain in the process – no thanks. After Sam got done mourning his sorry ass he'd probably die laughing himself to death.

So he gently lowers himself into the tub, stifling a groan as his knee wobbles unsteadily with his position change. He'll swear up, down, and sideways that he took a real shower, but right now he's not sure how that would even be possible. He hunches his shoulders, letting the hot water sluice down his back, while he gives his knee a closer inspection. It's twice the size of his right knee and thankfully appears to have reached its peak, not having changed much from when he got his first glimpse of it at the Urgent Care.

He gets himself as clean as possible without moving his left leg before turning off the water and beginning to dry himself off while still sitting down. He works his right foot under his body, braces his arms against the sides of the tub, and makes a couple of false starts before a ball of dread sinks slowly into the bottom of his gut. _How the hell do I get out of here?_

As if on speed dial to Dean's brain, Sam's muffled voice floats through the door. "You okay in there?"

Dean's snarky reply dies on his lips when his right leg slips a little with his final attempt, jarring his left just enough to remind him how screwed he is.

"Dean?" Sam's voice has a bit more concern behind it this time and Dean lets his head fall back against the shower liner, resigned now to the fact that he needs Sam's help. Again.

"A little help?" he calls out, resignation tainting his voice as he carefully drapes his towel across his lap. It's not like the brothers haven't been living in each other's pockets for years, but they at least try to keep up some semblance of decency.

Sam cracks the door and directs a "Cristo" in Dean's general direction. Dean gives a half-hearted smile and Sam can't help but notice his brother's pasty complexion, the resigned set of his shoulders, and the utter exhaustion on his face.

Dean fills him in on his current predicament and Sam hastens to his brother's side, braces himself in a wide-legged stance and helps Dean get enough leverage to sit on the side of the tub facing inwards while averting his eyes as the towel makes a few dangerous shifts of its own.

Dean braces himself against his brother while he shimmies his way into his boxers, again letting out a few groans when he puts any kind of pressure on his left leg, then allows Sam to help him turn so he's facing outwards.

Dean's doing his controlled deep breathing at this point and Sam makes short work of getting his brother to his feet in an attempt to get him horizontal in bed for the night. Sam bypasses Dean's crutches, acting in their stead, and Dean all but collapses when his brother deposits him onto his bed, letting out a couple of curses as he works to get his injured leg up on the bed with the rest of his body.

Sam scurries back the bathroom after propping Dean's leg up on a couple of pillows, then quickly and efficiently rewraps his leg with the ACE bandage before strapping the brace back in place. He makes Dean swallow a couple of pain pills and only feels his own shoulders loosen a little as Dean's face loses some of the pain-tinged edges.

As the boys drop off to sleep, it's impossible to know which one of them is thinking _I am so screwed_ the loudest.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean and Sam are seated in the orthopedic surgeon's exam room, waiting for the doctor to come in for yet another session of poking and prodding.

"Seriously Sam, I don't know how many more people need to feel me up before we get an answer," Dean says from the exam table where he sits with his left leg extended, knee brace overtop of the track pants he's been wearing in lieu of jeans, right leg hanging off the edge of the table, back slumped into the corner of the wall.

"Just one more," says the man who enters the room, introducing himself as Dr. Thomas. He's not quite as big as Sam, but he looks like someone you wouldn't want to mess with. "Alright," he continues, "let's see what we've got here."

Dean's sure the doctor stops just short of rubbing his glands together in glee.

He helps Dean take off the brace as well as the underlying ACE wrap before taking him through some range of motion maneuvers. He "hmmmm's" and furrows his brow during different portions of the exam and Sam can't help but notice that the doctor's expressions mirror the times when Dean either clenches his fists, grinds his teeth, or sucks in a rapid breath.

A tentative attempt at walking is an epic failure as well. As soon as Dean puts even the slightest hint of weight on his injured leg, he has to grab hold of the exam table and take a few quick hops on his right leg to prevent himself from taking a nosedive. The pain is better; the unstable slip and slide sensation, not so much.

"Well, we need to check an MRI," the doctor says after Dean's seated back on the exam table. "I think you've got some significant damage in there and I need to see how bad."

Dean and Sam hope the recently deceased Mr. Hanson's insurance is up to the task.

The doctor hands over the prescription for the imaging study along with a refill of the pain medications. "And we're going to change out the brace. Aimee will be right in and then you guys can get out of here."

True to his word, his medical assistant returns a few moments later and efficiently wraps Dean's knee back up before pulling out an even bigger brace that spans from the top of his thigh to just above his ankle.

"Shit," Sam says to Dean, eyes wide, "what the hell did you do to your leg to deserve that?"

()o()o()o()o()

"Complete tears of your anterior cruciate and medial and lateral collateral ligaments," says the surgeon at their follow-up office visit a few days later. At Sam and Dean's blank looks, he continues, "There are four ligaments in the knee and yours", he says, pointing to Dean's braced knee, "is hanging on by only one of them right now."

Dean's face blanches as the doctor continues.

"Your knee is very unstable and because of the severity of the injury, I'd like to go in and do surgery sooner rather than later."

"How soon?" Sam asks, speaking up for his brother who's busy trying not to lose his lunch.

The doctor checks the schedule on the computer in front of him, clicking through a couple of screens. "Looks like I had a cancellation Thursday. So in three days?" he asks with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sam throws Dean a quick glance before hurriedly accepting. "He'll be there," he promises. Sam will drag him into surgery himself if he has to. _I wonder if that tranquilizer gun is still in the trunk?_

()o()o()o()o()

It actually doesn't take all that much to convince Dean to go under the knife. A couple of well-placed references to "things Dean could easily do when he can no longer hunt" and Sam's intentional bookmarking of websites on "canes and personal assistance devices for the younger population" end up working much better than any tranq gun.

Sam's head snaps out of his hands when the nurse walks into the waiting room and calls for the family of Dean Hanson. He approaches cautiously, fleeting pictures of ventilators, breathing tubes, and CPR flashing across his brain while he considers the words the nurse may have for him. _We lost your brother during the surgery. The doctor couldn't save his leg. The damage was too severe – he'll never walk again._

Instead, the nurse gives him a cocked eyebrow and a shake of her head. "That brother of yours sure is keeping us on our toes."

Sam gives a relieved half chuckle, nodding his head even though he's not sure to what she's referring. Her tone of voice makes him think that Dean's probably not trashing the place or having flashbacks to any of their previous hunts.

But still, he's not sure he quite expected this.

As Sam nears the bed where Dean's recovering following his surgery, a slow smile spreads across his face. _That can't be…. Is that….?_ Dean's belting out show tunes. Sam didn't even think Dean knew what show tunes were. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, making no move to hide that fact that he's capturing Dean's oh-so-off-key rendition of "Hair". _This is better than Christmas._

"Sammmmmy!" Dean happily calls out, finally noticing his brother who's been standing by the foot of his bed for over five minutes. He beckons Sam up to the head of his bed and when Sam acquiesces, begins to pat his brother's hair in time to his song.

"Hey man," Sam says in his 'don't scare the crazy person' voice as he tries to duck out of his brother's reach. "How you feeling?"

"Grrreeaaaattt!" Dean says, doing his best Tony the Tiger impersonation.

Sam's smile widens, still watching Dean through the video recorder on his phone. _Forget Christmas; this is the gift that keeps on giving the whole year!_

To Be Continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: In case you haven't figured me out by now, I really enjoy injuring Dean.

The significance of Dean's knee injury and subsequent surgery necessitated a rapid housing search by Sam. He'd considered just holing up in the motel, but Dean's surgeon confirmed that he's out of commission for a couple of months – unable to put any weight on his surgically-repaired knee for the first four to six weeks, followed by another two still on crutches with gradually increasing weight-bearing on the knee before finally being able to walk on his own, although still with the aid of the knee brace. And the fact that he's got to do rehab and post-op checks means they have to stay relatively put.

And so, Sam had called in the big guns.

"Stupid Idjit," was all Bobby had grunted before telling Sam he'd get back to him with a place where they can sit tight for a while.

Sam pulls up in front of the happy little yellow two-story cottage, glancing around to make sure he has the right address.

Bobby told him that his "lady friend" was out of the country for a couple of months on sabbatical. While Sam had tried not to gag at the thought of what Bobby's use of the term "lady friend" implied, he can't quite help but think maybe there is more to Bobby than the flannel-loving gruff hunter they've known. Sabbaticals and flower gardens don't usually mix with junkyards and trucker hats.

Before Sam can make himself too squeamish with the whole "what's under Bobby's hood" line of thought, however, his attention shifts to the backseat of the Impala where Dean makes himself known.

"Are we there yet?" he asks, not even joking a little bit. Dean's crashed from the anesthesia high and is now much more recognizable as Sam's cranky older brother. Sam wonders if there's a black market anywhere for the happy juice Dean got during surgery because he's pretty sure he's going to need some of it.

Dean swats Sam's hands away as he tries to help his brother slide out of the backseat of the Impala, gently easing himself backwards until he gets to the door. Where he gets himself stuck. Can't figure out how to get his right leg out of the car, his left encased in the bulky black leg brace stretched out in front of him on the seat. His shoulders slump as he realizes he needs Sam's help yet again and he lets out a little huff accompanied with a rather dejected "Fine."

Sam plays dumb, just stands outside the car behind his brother. "Fine what, Dean?" he asks.

"Fine you can help," Dean grumbles, back still to Sam.

Sam just rolls his eyes, unwilling to get into a sparring match with his brother right now. Instead, he catches Dean under the armpits and guides him the rest of the way out of the car, stopping to allow Dean to get his right leg under him and brace himself against the roof of the Impala while Sam gets his crutches. Dean gives a stifled groan as he gets himself settled on them; his knee is starting to wake up from its local anesthetic and his arms haven't yet gotten used to their new aluminum best friends.

The good news, as far as Sam and Dean are concerned, is that the house is completely flat on the first story. Including front and back entrances. There's a kitchen with eat-in dining nook, living room with stereo and TV, a sparsely furnished home office, and a ½ bath. The bad news is that it's a two-story house. And the main bathroom and both bedrooms are upstairs. And there's no way Dean's going to agree to camp out on the sofa for the duration of his convalescence. The paisley might rub off on him.

So Sam does a brief recon of the house, rolls up all of the potential faceplant-inducing throw rugs, then takes their bags upstairs and disperses them appropriately. He gives Dean the slightly larger of the two rooms which will allow easier access and maneuverability with his crutches. The fact that it's the master bedroom and the possibilities of Bobby having been there and done S _omething_ on that bed pretty much ruled out Sam even thinking about sleeping on the bed anyway, but Dean isn't the wiser. He'll just think Sam's being a good brother.

In fact, the only thing Dean's wise to right about now is his need to stretch out and get his leg elevated. And get some more pain medications into his system. He gives a brief glance over to the couch and barely suppresses a shudder before turning himself towards the stairs.

He'd assured the nurses that he knows how to use crutches; he's certainly had enough injuries over the years. But looking up at that steep staircase now and knowing he absolutely cannot under any circumstances put any weight on his left leg make him wish he's listened just a bit closer to their instructions. He briefly considers just sitting down and dragging his ass up the steps backwards, but he's fairly certain that even that would jar his leg at this point in time. Given the tenuous post-anesthesia rolling of his stomach, even that doesn't sound like a winner of an idea.

And so he considers his options, chews on his lower lip, and finally dips his head in resignation, asking Sam for his help yet again.

Sam lets out a sigh of relief and quickly takes up the position he's already calculated will best help his big brother. He wedges himself under Dean's right shoulder and takes Dean's crutches in his opposite hand, allowing Dean to hold onto the railing with his left hand while his right clings tightly to Sam. Sam idly wonders if the same inchworm is racing them again – it takes them forever to reach the top of the steps (up with the good, then the bad follows) – but they make it in one piece.

Dean gives a low moan when he finally sinks onto the bed, then winces when he tries to move his leg up onto it. Sam steps in quickly before his brother can protest and helps guide his braced leg onto the bed as Dean moves the rest of his body. "Shoes," Sam mutters quickly, making short work of getting Dean's sneakers off the flower-covered duvet. And amazingly, Dean lets him. Of course Dean is looking a little worse for the wear right now – he's trying to take controlled breaths to breathe through the pain and Sam can see the little beads of sweat popping out on his forehead.

Sam knows his brother's hurting when he just cracks an eye at Sam's tap on his shoulder and dry swallows the pills being thrust in his face. Hopeful that Dean will be out for at least a couple of hours if not the whole rest of the night, Sam makes quick work of unpacking his own bag (he would never even think about unpacking Dean's – he might get an STD) and then heads back downstairs to take stock of their short-term living situation.

He finds the fridge decently stocked, although he'll need to make a trip to the store sooner rather than later, a little patio and herb garden out back, and enough emo soft rock CDs to send Dean off the deep end. Sam makes a couple of laps around the downstairs, reminiscent of a dog circling his bed, then pulls out his computer and begins to aimlessly surf the net.

He's not quite sure what he's going to do with himself for two plus months of downtime while his brother's out of commission. He smiles, contemplating the possibilities.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean's first thought when he wakes up the next morning is, _Who vomited flowers all over my room?_ As his brain clicks sluggishly into gear, he gives a groan, slowly and painfully remembering how he came to be lying in a strange although not uncomfortable bed, flowers literally climbing the wallpapered walls. One of his next thoughts is, _Holy Hell,_ which rockets through his brain as he shifts position, his leg sending jolts of pain all the way up to his eyeballs. He pulls himself up until he's leaning against the headboard, slow breathing through a few waves of nausea, and untangles the blankets from around the pillow tower Sam's created for his leg.

He wrinkles his nose when he remembers the surgeon's recommendation to wear shorts on the day of the surgery. _At least Sam didn't have to strip me to my skivvies last night,_ Dean thinks, taking in the fact that he's still in yesterday's outfit. He uses his hands to gently move his leg off of the pillow tower, trying to keep the jostling to a minimum, and gets a better look at the accessory his leg will have for the better part of several months.

His brace is fricking huge – four black Velcro straps, two above the knee and two below encasing his leg from mid-thigh to just above his ankle, metal rods going down the sides, and a hinged locking mechanism that sits at the level of his knee. But at least the big-ass brace is keeping his leg from falling apart again; he feels a bit better knowing his leg is no longer just waving in the breeze but he's really not sure how he's going to make it. Close to two months on crutches. _Fuck._

He scrubs his hands over his face, contemplates just lying there for a little while wallowing in his luck, but the sensation of a full bladder gradually makes getting his ass out of bed priority number one. He carefully works himself over to the edge of the bed, direct deposits a pain pill Sam oh-so-helpfully left on the bedside table, then hoists himself onto his crutches.

He takes a few seconds to acclimate to the new altitude as well as the pull of gravity on his leg and he deep breathes through a few lingering waves of nausea. Still shaky but past the danger of a carpet dive, he crutches his way to the bathroom, face crinkled in disgust equally at his own reflection in the mirror (pasty complexion, dark circles under his eyes, hair sprouting from every direction) and at the décor of the room (powder blue walls with matching toilet and sink; there's even one of those crocheted dolls that hides the extra roll of toilet paper).

 _Geez, where did Sam find this place?_

Urgent task completed (after a few muttered curses while trying to figure out how keep his balance without spraying the walls), Dean considers going back to bed but the smell of coffee wafting up from downstairs shifts his flight path. He considers asking Sam to bring him a cup, then quickly dismisses that thought when he remembers his brother's necessary help the day before. So instead, he turns and faces the stairs. And what could very well be his doom. Because those things are freaking monstrous. He thought they were bad coming up, but going down looks a whole lot worse. Death grip on the railing with his right hand and both crutches tucked under his left arm, he methodically makes his way to the bottom where he lets out a slow breath and throws up a brief prayer that when he dies, it won't be from something as inane as a set of stairs.

His nose follows the trail of coffee to where Sam's sitting, his tall frame overtaking the small dining nook as if he was in a child's play house.

Sam turns, the slight metallic squeak of crutches alerting him to Dean's presence. Like a bell on a cat. _At least I'll be able to keep track of him the next few months_ , thinks Sam.

Dean heads straight for the coffeemaker, props his crutches against the counter while he braces his left hand against it so he can root through the cupboards with his right before finding a non-girly mug tucked in the back ( _Didn't I give something like this to Bobby way back when?_ ), and pours himself a steaming mug of liquid brain cells. He takes a couple of sips and then glances over to where Sam's seated, then back to his mug. _Crap._ How's he going to get over there and sit down with his coffee? _Maybe I wanted to stand anyway,_ he thinks.

Sam reads his predicament and before Dean can raise any argument, Sam's already taken his coffee and moved it over to the table. He begrudgingly gives Sam a nod of thanks, resettles himself on his crutches, and carefully makes his way over to the empty chair across from him. It takes him a few moments to lower himself into the chair, one hand for balance on the table while the other tries to keep his chair from tipping or squirting away, awkwardly trying to keep his leg off the ground while his right does the brunt of the work. It takes him a few moments trying to find a tolerable position (because nothing's comfortable at this point) before Sam slides an empty chair over to him and helps ease his leg up onto it.

"Guess that's why you're the smart one, Sammy," says Dean with a wry smile as he settles back to drink his coffee.

Sam just shrugs his shoulders and turns his laptop when Dean tries to catch a glimpse of the screen.

Dean narrows his eyes and says, "Penny for your dirty thoughts?"

Sam rolls his eyes and replies, "I'm not searching for porn."

Dean "Mmmm Hmmmm's" noncommittally, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table with his left hand while his right keeps up a steady caffeine distribution to his mouth.

"Geez, man," says Sam, after Dean's kept his routine up for at least five more minutes. "Twitchy much?" Sam briefly considers the fact that it's just Dean's first day after surgery. And he's got about 60 more to go. _Seriously, where's that tranquilizer gun?_

()o()o()o()o()

"Looks great!" Dr. Thomas says, having unwrapped Dean's post-op bandages at his first visit a couple of days after surgery.

The boys look down at Dean's surgically-repaired leg in unison. "Great" is not the first word that would've come to mind; phrases more like, "swollen to hell", "post bar fight bruising", and "dear God, is that a knee?" would have been more appropriate. Dean's entire left leg is a veritable color wheel of blues, purples, yellows, and greens, the bruising rivaled only by the swelling that's present all the way down to his ankle.

The surgeon assures them both that it's completely normal and will gradually resolve over the next several days before jetting out the door, leaving his assistant to complete the visit. She changes the dressings to a couple of steri-strips and gauze pads, rewraps his knee with an overlying ACE bandage, and helps Dean back into the knee brace. She then again reviews the wound care instructions (don't get the incisions wet yet – wrap your leg in plastic or saran wrap), reiterates the no weight-bearing on his repaired leg, and ushers them to the appointment with the physical therapist.

Sam and Dean are deposited at the check in desk for the therapy department where Dean peruses the potentials for his therapist while Sam fills out the paperwork.

 _Please let her be hot_ , thinks Dean.

 _Dear God, please it be a guy,_ thinks Sam when he catches his brother ogling a couple of the prettier therapists.

Sam practically crows with delight when a short but well-muscled younger man approaches, reaching out to shake Dean's hand as he introduces himself as "Tim". He can see his brother's disappointment and almost feels for him. Almost. But he's sure Dean will find some way to smarm his way around the department, so he just gives a mental eyeroll and watches as the therapist leads his brother over to an empty table. It's all pretty innocuous from what Sam can see – range of motion, working the muscles around the knee, some kind of muscle stimulator machine that makes Dean cringe.

Dean shakes Tim's hand, mentally ticking "first therapy appointment" off of his Return to Hunting 'To Do' list, then crutches his way back to Sam, giving his patented Dean head nod/smile combination to a couple of women on his way out of the room.

 _Like shooting fish in a barrel,_ thinks Dean. _Chicks dig the injured guy._

 _Crap,_ thinks Sam, seeing the way a couple of the women look back. _I'll bet he gets lucky even hobbling around on one leg. That is so unfair._

()o()o()o()o()

"Bobby, man, you've gotta help me."

The desperation in Sam's voice crosses the phone lines and Bobby's hackles rise as he runs through the list of possible threats to his boys. "What Sam? You boys safe?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says waving a hand through the air dismissing Bobby's concern. "No, it's Dean." Sam peeks his head around the corner of kitchen door, catching a glimpse of his brother reclined on the paisley sofa before darting back into the safety of the dining nook. "Bobby," he whispers, urgency warring with panic. "He's driving me crazy."

Sam can hear Bobby's answering chuckle followed by the empty airtime that likely signals Bobby taking a swig of his beer.

"It's not funny, man," Sam hisses, running his hand through his hair in an unconscious show of his exasperation.

"Says you," Bobby replies with a snort. "It's damned hilarious from a couple hundred miles away."

What started out with just the hand twitching rapidly escalated to out and out boredom by day number five. The first couple of days kept Dean pretty well occupied, what with needing to stay relatively still with his leg elevated, the routine icing of his knee, getting used to the range of motion exercises, and the overall haze of pain medications. But since that first post-op visit, the pain has gradually receded, the strong medications have been changed out for the over the counter variety, and Dean has been able to be up on his feet more frequently. In fact, Dean reminds Sam on a regular basis, his surgeon wants him up and around as much as possible. Sam thinks Dean's surgeon might reconsider if he knew his brother a bit better.

While Sam is able to sit still, absorbed and engrossed in a book or the computer for hours on end, Dean could be the poster child for ADD. He'll stay settled on the couch just long enough to complete his prescribed icing before he has to haul himself off of the not quite comfortable paisley monster and do some laps around the downstairs. Then he'll complete his home exercises and usually head upstairs for a shower. Which requires Sam's help to wrap the healing leg in plastic to prevent his incision sites from getting wet. And then after he makes his way back downstairs (Sam cringing every time he hears his brother on the stairs), he's good for another half hour or so of idleness before he has to check to see what's going on outside (the answer is always nothing – they're in fricking suburbia).

When that routine wears thin (and by this time there are still way too many free hours remaining in the day for Sam's liking), he'll turn his attentions to his brother. The brothers are well-versed in caring for each other while sick and injured; Sam seriously wishes his brother was sick. Because at least then he's usually out of it and sleeping the majority of the time. With his current situation, however, Dean's mind and mouth are free to run at breakneck speed, and Sam's the unfortunate hostage.

He's getting dizzy trying to keep up with Dean's motor mouth, let alone his rapid 360 degree conversational turns. If he weren't the one on the receiving end, it might even be funny. "What are you doing? Have you talked to Bobby recently? We got any M&Ms? Is there anything around here that's our kind of weird? Did you see that video of the skydiving dog? Do you think any of the therapists are into me? Is there any beef jerky left?"

"You still there Sam?" Bobby asks, cutting off Sam's thoughts of his brother's verbal diarrhea.

"Unfortunately," Sam grumbles.

"Well," the older hunter draws, "I think I remember Gina saying something about one of her neighbors having hip replacement surgery."

"Good for her," Sam snarks.

"All I'm saying," Bobby says, ignoring Sam, "is that there's not many rehab places around. There's a good chance she and Dean are going to the same place. Might be they could carpool?"

The significance of that hits Sam like a two by four. "Maybe he could get a ride," says voices out loud. A couple of hours of free time. Yes.

"Bobby, you're a genius."

"I keep trying to tell ya…" The older man chuckles again and tells Sam to hang in there. "Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful of the Cougars. They'll eat you boys alive."

To Be Continued…


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Turns out that Gina (or Bobby's "friend with unmentionable benefits", as Sam thinks of her) was right on the money. Bobby emails the information of the rehabbing woman to Sam who quickly makes a couple of inquiries of his own.

Nora and her sister, Beth, live a block down from where Sam and Dean are staying. Nora's the older of the two and the one currently working on getting her new hip up to par. Both in their fifties, both divorced, both very agreeable to help out a poor young man in need.

Sam opens the door and has to take a step back, the two meticulously make-upped women pressed almost flush against the door in an effort to each be the first to make an introduction.

"Beth", says the slightly taller and thinner of the two, as she holds her right hand out and pats her carefully lacquered hair with the other.

Nora stands slightly behind, leaning on an aluminum cane, shooting brief daggers at her sister before turning to Sam and smiling sweetly. "Nora," she says, "usually the quicker one, but a little off my game," she adds, nodding at the unwelcome accessory in her well-manicured right hand.

Sam's dimples make a brief appearance and he stifles his grin quickly, seeing the feral gleam in the sisters' eyes. He steps back, allowing them to make their way into the living room where they quickly descend upon Dean like vultures at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Dean, the "Poor Thing," is in the process of trying to get his shoes on, anticipating leaving with Sam for his scheduled PT appointment. He flicks his widened eyes to his brother, silently begging for help as Beth coos over his leg and Nora tries to trade war stories.

"Stainless steel and plastic, you believe that?" asks Nora, tapping her new hip, while Dean's lips flap like a fish out of water. "But I have a really great therapist. How about you? You fitting in okay? They taking good care of you?"

Sam makes a scene out of looking at his watch, saying, "Oh wow. You guys should really get going. Don't want to be late for your appointments."

Dean looks relieved until the sisters tell Sam how they'll take good care of his brother (wink, wink) and be sure to introduce him around. Sam has to bite his cheek when Beth practically licks her slightly over-plumped lips.

"Sam," Dean growls, hauling himself to his feet after the women have made their way outside to their waiting car. "What the hell?"

"Don't want to miss your ride," Sam answers blandly.

"You are not handing me over to those….."

"Cougars, Dean," he says with a slow smile. "They're called Cougars."

"Fuck that," he says, adjusting his stance on his crutches. "I'll drive myself."

Sam makes a show of taking in his brother's knee brace, slowly crosses his arms, and says, "No you won't. Not until that thing's unlocked."

Dean narrows his eyes at his brother, silently cursing Sam and his knee with its brace and the wheel well of the Impala that won't accommodate his outstretched leg. He's already tried. "But that's not for another couple of weeks."

"Yep."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean briefly considers just ditching his appointment, then reconsiders as the words "permanent limp" shuffle through his brain. Instead, he gives his brother a death glare, then does his best to stomp off, the effect limited by his fumbling with the front door and having to crutch sideways to avoid having the screen door bang into him on the way out.

Sam lets out a slow smile, not even trying to hold back the giddy anticipation over the next few hours of silence and gives a little wave to Dean as he watches his brother awkwardly maneuver himself into the sisters' backseat, batting Beth's hands away as she tries to help him scoot backwards into the car.

Sam's last view of his brother as the car pulls away is Dean's middle finger waving back.

()o()o()o()o()

"Dude, you suck," Dean proclaims loudly as he bangs his way through the door a couple of hours later. He crutches around the downstairs, gives a brief pout when he doesn't find Sam hunched over his computer, and then makes his way back to the bottom of the stairs, straining for any evidence that Sam's somewhere upstairs. Hearing nothing, he heads back to the kitchen where he roots around in the fridge and pulls out the ingredients to make himself a sandwich. His smoking brain has his body's metabolism cranking at higher speeds than usual.

The therapy appointment wasn't all that exciting. Just Tim hooking him up to that stupid machine to get his thigh muscles working again, breaking up the scar tissue around his knee, and doing more range of motion stuff. Boring. He was at least hoping to "get acquainted" with a few of the female members of his new club. Well, more in his age range anyway. Because Nora, and by extension, Beth, while in the rehab club, are not what he had in mind.

He'd been laying it on pretty thick with the cute receptionist after his session when he'd felt a firm squeeze on his backside. He'd jerked enough to throw himself off balance, face reddening as he had to grab onto the chest-level reception desk to keep himself upright. He'd felt a pair of hands tighten around his waist, a giggled "Ooops" emanating from behind his right ear, and he quickly worked to reposition himself on the crutches to turn and face the unwelcome newcomer.

 _Beth._

The receptionist's eyes had gone wide and then her face blanched as she made herself busy with the paperwork she had just recently assured Dean could wait.

Before he could even eke out a protest, Beth had attached herself to his side and steered him over to a couple of empty chairs in the waiting room, her sister still working with her therapist. He'd caught the receptionist shooting questioning glances their way and when he'd finally realized what she was thinking, his stomach had almost reproduced his breakfast. Because seriously? He's okay with older women. Usually means more experience. But there's older and then there's Older. Beth could be his mother. _Gross._

Once that thought had popped into his head, he'd begun to question Sam's true intentions. He could have dropped Dean off and gone to the library. Or hung out in a coffee shop. Or gotten his geek on somewhere else. The question had been tickling his brain ever since he'd pulled away, a captive in the backseat of Beth's car.

And then his eyes had flashed wide as the truth screamed into his brain like a banshee. _Sammy's cockblocking me._

"Son of a ….," he'd mumbled, interrupting Beth's diatribe about something or other. Honestly, he'd stopped listening when he'd heard the words "hot flashes". He'd given a brief conciliatory smile, then continued stewing in his newest revelation while adroitly avoiding Beth's wandering hands.

The women, true to their word, had introduced Dean around to the other people in the rehab center and while he's always been a people person, he couldn't quite get excited about this social event. Because the majority of the people there were in the "nearing retirement" age bracket. He'd tried to throw out a few winks to the handful of attractive females his own age (a couple of therapists and another patient), but the sisters had seemed to create a force field around him, effectively repelling any return female attention.

Outwardly, he'd been all sweet smiles and charm. He'd thanked the sisters profusely for the ride and promised to take them up on that offer for coffee and Nora's homemade apple pie.

But back in the safety of the house, he's plotting Sam's slow and painful death. He balances himself against the counter, slowly chewing his sandwich and wondering how Sam would look with a shaved head. He's got to be careful though. He needs Sam's help until he's off the crutches. Can't piss off one of the only things standing between him and a fully functioning leg.

 _Payback's a bitch Sammy. Just like you._

()o()o()o()o()

Sam's eyes slowly open and he draws a hand across his mouth, cringing at the damp string of drool that clings to the back of his fingers. He glances at his watch and gives a start, mentally calculating that Dean's appointment ended a little over two hours ago.

He gathers his belongings from where they lay scattered across the table in the library – he'd set himself up in a back corner just after Dean left, having scouted the place out soon after arriving in town. While he could have accomplished his task at the house, he just needed to get out of there for a couple of hours and nothing makes him happier than being surrounded by books.

Besides, he figures Dean might need some cool-down time when he gets back. Especially if he's worked out Sam's intentions. And he probably has. His brother's always been quick on the draw when it comes to anything involving the fairer sex. Sam chuckles, thinking of the rather unfair position in which he's placed his brother – he really doesn't stand a chance with Beth and Nora.

()o()o()o()o()

"Honey, I'm home!" Sam yells rather cheerfully upon entering the house. "Hey!" he says to Dean when he sees him lying on the floor doing leg lifts.

"Hey yourself," he grunts back, head falling to the floor in relief when he's finished his exercise set for the afternoon. He holds his arms out to Sam in a nonverbal request for help, too tired to struggle upright on his own right now. He can tell Sam's practically bursting at the seams, wanting to ask how his appointment went, but Dean ignores him, figures that curiosity killed the cat. Maybe it'll kill his brother too.

Instead, he feigns indifference and asks for Sam's help in another task. "Dude," he says, getting his crutches under his armpits. "I need a shower." Sam glances back, sniffs in his general direction, and quickly agrees.

He follows his brother's slow progress up the stairs, hovering behind him in case of a misstep, and lets out an inaudible breath when they reach Dean's room. Dean scoots himself onto his bed (again Sam tries not to think of the things that bed has seen, considers Dean's probably not making it any better) and guides his braced leg up next to his good one. Sam makes quick work of getting his leg waterproofed, having had way too much practice for his liking, wrapping his brother's leg in a garbage bag, hole in the bottom for his foot to poke through and sealing it with Duct Tape at both ends to prevent any leakage. Thankfully they won't have to do this again (unless Dean does something stupid, which, Sam notes, is not out of the realm of possibilities), since his stitches are scheduled to come out at his next post-op appointment in another couple of days.

Dean crutches over to the bathroom, reassuring Sam that he can handle things from here, thank you very much. He wriggles out of the boxers he'd kept on while Sam was wrapping his leg, gripping the sink and wall for support, and then makes his way over to the shower. He eyes the shower chair Sam has oh-so-thoughtfully picked up, hating the necessity of it while acknowledging it all the same. It's just not worth the risk of a fall and a re-injury. He'd really rather never go through this again. Ever.

He cautiously eases his way into the tub, gets himself situated on the chair, then lets out a rather emotive groan of pleasure as he leans forwards, letting the hot water massage the crutch-induced knots out of his shoulders.

He takes his time, enjoying a tub without questionable rust rings or threat of foot fungus, and gets himself as squeaky clean as he can. He reverses his previous maneuvers to get himself out of the shower, cursing when he realizes he's forgotten to bring clean clothes in with him.

So he wraps the towel around his waist and hopes to God it stays in place, unable to make a grab for it if it decides to head south since his hands are otherwise occupied with his crutches.

As it turns out, it wouldn't have mattered anyways, Sam's not upstairs anymore; he gets himself into a pair of boxers and then bellows for his brother to help break him out of his Duct Tape jail.

The brothers stare at Dean's leg where it lies outstretched on the flowered duvet, the garbage bag and tape having been successfully removed. Next step: dressing changes. Dean glances at Sam who's studying the thing like there will be a pop quiz later on. Dean rolls his eyes and then begins to unstrap the Velcro of his brace, tightening his jaw a bit as Sam gently lifts his ankle, careful to keep his leg straight, and slides the brace out from under his leg. Dean makes short work of the underlying ACE wrap and both brothers are relieved to see that the swelling and color palate are finally returning to normal.

"Hey," Dean says in a sarcastically cheerful voice, "what do you know – it looks like a knee again!"

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Sam," Dean asks from where he's reclined on the paisley couch.

"Yeah?" his brother replies absentmindedly, totally absorbed in what he's doing on his computer.

Dean gives a brief smirk which goes unnoticed by Sam, then puts his best pained expression on his face. "Can you do me a favor?" Sam glances up, the tone of Dean's voice kicking up his brother/protector mode.

"What's up? You okay?" he asks, zeroing in on his brother.

"Yeah," Dean says, wincing convincingly as he adjusts his leg on its pillows. "It's just," he begins, then halts, reeling Sammy in with his act. "Never mind." He makes a show of beginning to struggle to his feet and Sam huffs out a breath, closes his laptop and gets to his own feet.

"Dean," he says, coming out to the living room and glowering with all of his 6 foot 4 inch frame. "Sit." He gives a smirk. "Stay. Good boy." He tries to pat Dean on the head and his brother swats his hand away, ducking out of reach from where he's stretched back out on the couch.

Dean scowls at him, sure he's got his brother on the hook now. "Fine."

"What do you need?" Sam reiterates.

"Can you go down to Nora and Beth's for me? I said I'd stop over today, they needed something fixed. But I'm not really feeling up to it, you know?" He gives his brother his sheepish look and Sam lets out another huff.

"Sure man, no problem." He gives his brother another staying glance and then heads out the door.

Dean lets out a chuckle after his brother's well out of the house. In truth, he was supposed to go over to the sisters' house for pie and coffee. And while the pie does interest him, there's no way in hell he's setting foot in that house. Nora's not so bad, but Beth, man…. He didn't know one person could have so many hands.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Bobby!" Dean figures he'll check in with the older hunter, see if he can help him fill some of the spare time he's got on his hands while he's out of commission. Plus, he just needs someone other than Sam to talk to.

"Hey kiddo. How's things?" Bobby's gruff voice is a welcome change and Dean can't keep the smile from creeping over his face. Something he'd be more careful with if the grizzled hunter could actually see him.

"Okay," he says simply. "Leg's not hurting much anymore. Swelling's gone down. Still stuck with the damned crutches," he grumbles, throwing his hated supports a glare. "And I will not be sorry to never see this couch again," he adds, afraid he'll be having paisley nightmares for the rest of his life.

"Oh, that thing ain't so bad," Bobby says.

"And the wallpaper in the bedroom man," Dean continues, now that he has an open ear for his complaints; because Sam just ignores him. "Looks like someone puked flowers in there."

Bobby pauses and Dean can hear him taking a pull from what he thinks is probably a bottle of beer. "How's the bed?" he asks but doesn't allow Dean to answer. "Comfy ain't it?" he states more than questions.

Dean's brain practically squeals to a halt, rewinds through everything he knows about where they're staying. And everything he doesn't.

Sam generously giving him the master bedroom "because you need the room for your crutches". The mug in the kitchen he now remembers definitely giving to Bobby one sappy holiday or another. Nora and Beth's references to Gina, who's out of the country on sabbatical and "that crusty trucker man she's been slumming it with recently".

"Dammit Bobby!" Dean cries out, recoiling at the horror of what he's just realized. "Now I have to go poke my eyes out."

"Might want to burn the sheets while you're at it," Bobby chuckles. "That woman sure is flexible."

Dean snaps the phone shut, trying to keep his stomach contents in their proper place.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean hears the door close and makes his careful way downstairs. He almost wishes he'd gone with Sam, he's so bored. His brother's been gone for over three hours.

He heads into the kitchen where he finds Sam mainlining from a bottle of Jack. Dean's eagle eye takes in his brother's shell-shocked look and doesn't fail to notice the smear of color on his collar. He looks closer and works hard to stifle a laugh. Beth wears a garish color of red, Nora a more muted mauve. And Sam's collar is graced with a slash of each.

Sam doesn't talk to his brother the rest of the night.

()o()o()o()o()

"Oh man, Beth's latched onto you good, hasn't she?" Tim chuckles, shaking his head as he gently massages the muscles around Dean's knee.

Dean gives him a scowl, more at his therapists' conversational choice than at the discomfort he's evoking.

"Man, those two," Tim continues, changing his position to work Dean's knee through its range of motion. He glances to where Nora's working with her own therapist, then lowers his voice. "They're almost legends around here. Beth was here about a year ago after a back injury," he shudders, recalling the stories that later circulated regarding how she'd actually injured her back; it was not proper for polite company. "I'm just thankful you're here this time. Cause last time, it was me and Josh she was all over." In fact, the two therapists were considering offering to take Dean out for drinks as a Thank You for distracting Beth during her sister's appointments. There had actually been groans echoing through the department when Nora's name had popped up on the schedule.

"Glad to help," Dean says, his facial expression and tone of voice saying otherwise. "How do we get it to stop?"

Sam's taken up acting as chauffer again, now aware of what his brother's had to put up with in a one-on-one situation with the sisters. And it turns out that Nora's got her sights on Sam just as much as Beth's eyeing Dean like the last piece of pie at Thanksgiving.

So both of the boys are up Shit Creek.

Tim laughs again, hooking Dean's leg up to the stim machine he's come to loathe – makes his thigh jump around like a dying fish. "Oh, not much of anything. Besides getting healthy and moving out of town."

Dean wonders how much Sam would actually fight him if he suggested completing his rehab closer to Bobby.

To Be Continued…


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

It's kind of pathetic how little it takes to make Dean happy right now. The fact that he's wearing jeans instead of stupid track pants or shorts. The fact that he may be able to practice his Winchester mojo with the ladies. And the fact that he and his brother are going out for a Guys' Night. Not that it's any different from any of their other nights; they've been trapped together way too long. But tonight they're actually leaving the house. Dean hasn't really gone anywhere except to PT and he's almost giddy with the possibilities of some fresh air tonight. And, let's face it, some fresh faces. Because Sam's is really starting to get on his last nerve.

Not that he's been doing anything out of the ordinary. He's just being Sam. Trying to help. Like now for instance. Dean really wishes his brother wasn't helping him get his jeans on. But without his help, they could very well be here all night, one leg in and one leg out, trying to shimmy them into place before bracing his leg back up.

A mumbled grunt of thanks, a few extra tugs to get the wrinkles under the brace into more comfortable positions, and then they're out the door, ready to get their Winchester on.

Dean scoots himself into the back seat of the Impala (he's now perfected the art of the backwards scoot and drag), Sam hovering behind him "just in case". In case of what, Dean really doesn't know. He doubts he'll overshoot and fall out the other side of the car, but whatever. He turns his head to make a smart ass comment to his brother and catches a glimpse out the back window that makes his blood run cold: Nora and Beth hustling their way down the sidewalk towards them, looking like they're vying for the Olympic speed walking team. Before he can eke out a warning to Sam, Beth weasels her way into the backseat and gently guides Dean's outstretched left leg onto her lap.

Sam's mouth is catching flies, his disbelief broken by the slamming of the passenger side door and the sight of Nora leaning across the front seat at him. "You coming or what?" she asks without preamble.

Dean doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or cringe. He looks down to where Beth's idly stroking his ankle and settles for the latter.

"It's such a coincidence," she says, feral smile on her bright crimson lips. "We just happened to be looking out the window and saw you boys heading out looking like Hot Stuff." She gives an honest to goodness lip smack that makes Dean's testicles creep a little closer into his body, then continues, "We just figured we'd save some gas and carpool."

"But you don't even know where we're going," Sam says lamely.

"Oh, pish," Nora says, waving her hand. "Doesn't matter. Just get me out of the house. I'm going stir-crazy. Need to get some booze and action."

Dean gives a startled cough and Nora clarifies, "You boys play some Pool?"

Sam catches Dean's eye in the rearview mirror. "A little."

"Good," she says with a decisive nod. "Let's go."

She directs Sam to a local joint which, the brothers are relieved to see, does not cater to the over fifty crowd. Dean's initial glance around the place reveals a couple of viable female options for his mojo, and he makes note of the most likely bartender and barflies to seek out when the opportunity arises. Although it could be tricky with their leeches in tow.

Dean takes advantage of the fact that Nora's holding the door open, allowing him to go in first, and he crutches it as fast as he can toward an empty booth along the side of the dimly lit bar. He has no compunction about playing the injury card, simply slides in and places his leg onto the booth next to him, back propped against the wall while he watches the other three players in tonight's outing jockey for position. Technically, he could sit close to the aisle and stretch his leg out in front of him – it's not hurting that much anymore. But this way Beth can't cozy up next to him; plus, it's just more fun. Sam slides in across from him, his gigantor frame crammed into the corner opposite Dean as the two women slide in next to him. Dean gives him a bland smile; Sam gives him a nonverbal "Fuck You".

Dean begins to regret his seating choice not long after they arrive, however. While Sam has to be crammed into the booth beside the sisters, Dean has to sit across from them. And while Nora's hands keep disappearing below the table, Sam squirming away almost in perfect rhythm, at least her clothing choices are a little more appropriate. Because Beth's clothes are not leaving much to the imagination. And oh, how Dean really wishes they would. Bustier style top that allows more cleavage than Dean would like to see. And that's saying something. He has to continually remind himself to keep his gaze at eye level – it's kind of like a train wreck you just can't look away from.

"And that's why I divorced my second husband," Beth finishes, the foot running along the inside of his thigh pulling his concentration back from the consideration he's been giving to hysterical blindness and deafness.

He shifts uncomfortably, feeling only marginally better when he sees Sam engaged in a similar dance with Nora.

"So, uh," Dean grinds out, trying to redirect the ladies' attention away from their delicate manhoods. "What do you ladies do?" He gives a quick shrug to Sam who's giving him the "what kind of question is that" look. It's the only question his brain can come up with and it's one better than what Sam's got, which is a whole lot of bupkis. His brother is too busy defending himself to be conversationally helpful. And while Dean could technically get out of the booth and wander up to the bar in search of greener pastures, Sam hasn't pissed him off enough yet today to leave him outnumbered two to one. Besides, he's pretty sure his barnacle would just plaster herself right up against him anyway.

"We're in real estate," the sisters answer in unison. "Sold Gina that house," says Nora with a hint of pride in her voice. "Great little love shack," she says, giving Dean a wink. Dean cringes, first at the thought of being trapped in any kind of enclosed space with either of the sisters, then at the thought of the things Bobby may have been doing in said house.

"But our real passion is the arts," Beth pipes up. "Dance, theater. I used to be a gymnast, you know," she says, giving Dean a sly wink.

Dean's beer almost makes an unexpected and painful exit through his nostrils.

"Is that right?" Sam asks, feigning interest. "Dean here loves his musicals. Don't you Dean?"

Dean's forehead wrinkles, eyebrows almost meeting in the middle as he tries to figure out what his brother is talking about. He likes musicals about as much as he likes a good swift kick to the nuts.

Sam returns Dean's previous bland smile, keeping eye contact with his brother while he deftly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He breaks eye contact just long enough to pull something up on the screen, then smirks as he holds the phone to his side, allowing the sisters full view of the display.

Dean sips his beer, suspicious brow furrow slowly transitioning into wide-eyed disbelief as he hears a familiar voice belting out the lyrics to "Hair".

Sam's smirk gradually engulfs his whole face as he sees Dean's confusion morph into disbelief and then acute embarrassment. He also sees the exact millisecond his brother coils his body, ready to pounce and dislodge his phone from the viewing audience's sightline. A brief scuffle ensues, ending abruptly when his phone takes a dive into Nora's bowl of Clam Chowder, perfectly punctuated by Dean's "Grrreeaaaattt".

There's a moment of penitent silence while Sam wipes the phone off, giving an audible sigh of relief when it comes back on after a quick napkin detox.

"You suck," Dean says, unable to more fully express the suckiness of his brother's actions.

Sam gives a chuckle. "Tell you what. Let's play," he says, tilting his head to the grouping of pool tables occupying a corner of the bar. "You win, I erase the video."

Dean purses his lips, narrows his eyes, and ponders the possibilities open to him. "Fine." He doesn't even think to question what happens if he loses. Because he doesn't. Not to Sam. Nor does he think to question why Sam so easily makes the bet.

Sam gently nudges the ladies out of the booth, then ambles over to an empty pool table, leaving Dean to haul himself out of the booth while simultaneously trying to avoid Beth's unhelpful offers of help. At least Nora creates a roadblock to prevent any wandering passersby from crashing into his braced leg.

He slides the crutches out from their resting place beneath the table, then gradually works his way upright, crutches in one hand while the other hand clutches the table for balance. A couple of brief balance-adjusting hops and he gets his crutches under his arms, then sets out to make sure Sam destroys all evidence of his foray into musical theater.

Sam has the balls racked and takes the opening shot, breaking nicely but not sinking anything. Dean looks over his options, then makes his way around the table to get himself into a decent position. He tries to line up a shot, but the crutches under his arms seem to be every place the cue needs to be. He lets out a low growl of frustration before weighing his options and changing tactics. He leans the crutches against the table and carefully adjusts his stance, using the table to hold himself upright. It takes a little more concentration than he usually needs to beat his brother, but he quickly finds his rhythm and settles in to make sure there is no lingering evidence of his post-anesthesia embarrassment.

The brothers are engaged in a fairly cutthroat game, Dean's mobility issues impacting his accuracy, until Nora loudly announces that she's "got next". Sam quickly tanks the rest of the game, the feel of her hand wandering up his thigh during dinner still causing his skin to crawl. He regrets his decision, however, when he's left with Beth. It's like she's got four hands. And no mute button.

Dean can make out the inane string of conversation Beth's directing at his brother from where the two of them are seated at the bar behind the pool table. Although she's currently lamenting the fact that she never learned how to play pool, he's not altogether sure she'd actually be able to with the leather pants that she's poured herself into. Looks like she can barely stay seated on the high bar stool.

He turns his attention back to the table in front of him, smirk back on his face now that Sam's erased the video evidence of his anesthesia-induced blackmail opportunity.

"This should be a good one," he says as Nora breaks. "It's like the O-Gimpics." He gives a chuckle at the hilarity of his own joke.

"Hey," Nora says, "I'm nowhere near the gimp you are." It's true. She still has the cane with her, but doesn't need it anymore except for steps and long distances. "How's it coming anyway?" she asks in earnest, nodding at his braced leg.

He shrugs, lines up his shot, and sinks two balls while setting up his next shot. "Good I guess. Should be able to put some weight on it soon." Not soon enough for his liking, but his doctor assured him he was "coming along nicely" while Tim told him to "just be patient".

 _I'm sorry,_ Dean had thought, _have you met me?_

()o()o()o()o()

When the boys get home, they collapse into their respective corners – Dean onto the hated paisley couch where he can prop up his leg, and Sam onto the overstuffed recliner where he can sip a beer or five in hopes of chasing away the lingering memories of the evening. Being the designated driver significantly impacted the number of images and sensations he now has to scrub from his mind.

While Dean was busy beating Nora at pool, Sam had been busy trying to keep Beth's hands and lips from places he really didn't want uninvited visitors. He'd thought he'd be safe while Nora was occupied with Dean; he was wrong. And it seemed that the higher her blood alcohol level, the more hands Beth grew. It was like some kind of alcohol infused hydra - cut off one hand and three grew in its place.

It was with a sigh of relief that Dean announced his leg was bothering him and asked Sam to take them home. While it really wasn't throbbing that badly, all things considered, Dean had had about enough, both of pool in general and of the sisters. His attempts at talking with the bartenders and available female barflies between games were cut short by Beth's appearance. Every damn time. His witty banter routine with one of the bartenders had ended prematurely in a sarcastic "Good Luck" from her when she caught site of Beth making a beeline in his direction, fresh from a trip to the bathroom.

He'd groaned, uttered an only half-jesting "Save me," to the bartender before Beth snuggled up next to him, slipping her hand into his back pocket. He'd tried to jerk away, the movement hampered by his crutches, and he'd ended up holding onto the bar in order to adjust his stance, hoping she didn't try to make a play for his now exposed front pocket.

Dean had caught site of Sam trying nicely to defend himself against Nora's similar advances and decided to use his injury to their advantage. The sisters offered their objections and Dean had almost laughed at the look of horror on Sam's face when Beth suggested that they "take this party back to our place". But he didn't laugh, because he's pretty sure his face was almost identical. He could almost feel his manhood screaming in horror.

So the boys had quickly rounded up the skunked sisters, poured them into the Impala and unceremoniously dropped them off, making a quick getaway. They had visions of the sisters trying to follow them, trying to break down the door in a zombie-like fashion if they didn't close and lock the door fast enough.

The brothers consider laying down salt lines, quickly discarding the thought after recalling the amount of liquor the sisters had imbibed. They'd probably just use it to rim their glasses for another margarita.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hear you and your brother had yourselves quite the double date over the weekend," Tim says, snickering as he works Dean's knee through some new exercises.

"Shaddup," Dean's only retort, the memories still too fresh in his mind.

Even the receptionist can't hide her snicker as he crutches his way past her to a waiting Sam.

"Dude, this is all your fault you know," Dean says to his brother when he's tucked safely into the backseat of his Impala.

Sam just throws a questioning glance into the rearview mirror, no idea what his brother is talking about.

"I got no game, man. I should be rolling in the women but now. Chicks dig the injured guy. But those Cougars are cramping my style."

Sam gives a wince, rubs the back of his neck with the hand not steering the car. "Yeah," he admits sheepishly. "Might have made a miscalculation on that one."

"Gee," Dean says sarcastically, "you think?"

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Bobby," Dean calls out over the phone line.

"What 'cha got?"

"Looks like you're hunting a Rugaru," says Dean, reading off the computer screen in front of him. He's been helping Bobby research for the past couple of weeks, Sam having finally suggested it as a way to get his brother off of his own back. "Torch the sucker and run like hell," he adds helpfully.

"Thanks," Bobby says in a tone that says the exact opposite. Then in a gentler tone, "How are you boys gettin' along anyway? How's the leg?"

Dean looks at the offending limb, propped up on the couch, now allowed out of its protective brace while he's not walking on it. "Good," he says, echoing the doctor and his therapist. "At least I can put some weight on it now." He's graduated to being allowed to put no more than half of his body weight on his surgically repaired leg, the crutches still a necessary evil as well.

"Can't wait to get out of this town," he mutters under his breath.

"Oh, it ain't so bad," says Bobby, chuckling under his breath at a private joke.

"Well, no. The town itself isn't. The people are freaking crazy, though." Dean says, oblivious to Bobby's good mood. "We've got these two women following us around like lost puppies." _Or rabid dogs_ , thinks Dean.

"Thought that'd be your idea of heaven," Bobby replies, the smirk transmitting across the phone lines.

Dean "harumphs", considers Bobby's statement, and then begrudgingly agrees. "Usually. But not these two. They could be our mothers."

Bobby gives another chuckle.

"Hey Bobby," Dean asks, the slow smile spreading across his face. "How do you usually repel women?"

"Screw you," is Bobby's reply.

"Nah," Dean replies, the smile widening even further. "That just usually keeps 'em coming back for more. But seriously man," he replies when Bobby does nothing besides snort, "they won't leave us alone. It's killing my mojo."

"Tell 'em you're gay," Bobby says, the "Idjit" implied.

"But they know we're brothers."

"Tell them you're gay brothers." This time the "Idjit" is verbalized.

Dean purses his lips, gives consideration to Bobby's suggestion.

 _Crap. The man just might be a genius._

To Be Continued…

A/N: Thanks for reading – hope you're enjoying!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Alright man, get a move on," Dean calls up the stairs to Sam. He's got it on good authority (Tim told him he heard it from Nora's therapist) that the sisters have plans tonight. Some concert or something that should keep them occupied for a couple of hours, out of town and out of spying distance, allowing Sam and Dean to head out for the night without the threat of two additional unwelcome guests.

Sam's been looking kind of stressed the past few days (well, more stressed than Sam usually looks), and Dean's itching to get out of the house again, really looking forward to getting around better with less restrictions on his leg. Dean's finally talked his brother into another Boys Night Out, figuring the first one really didn't count since it was more like a Take Your Inappropriate Mother to Dinner event.

The boys debate their evening's destination, finally settling on the same bar they frequented with Beth and Nora. The food and drinks were actually pretty good, there were several tables available for pool, and Dean's really hoping the same hot bartender is working again tonight. As long as the sisters don't show up, they're pretty sure they'll really like the place.

"So where's your girlfriend?" the same hot bartender asks Dean.

He's been throwing his best smarm at her, trying not to overwhelm her with the six weeks of pent-up energy he's in danger of unleashing in one foul swoop. Her comment serves to cool his libido a bit and he glances around quickly at the mention of Beth, lets out a slow breath when he finds the sisters nowhere in sight.

His smile returns when he catches a glimpse of Sam, seated in a booth at the side of the bar, a pretty brunette across from him. He rolls his eyes when he catches a snippet of their conversation, something about the upcoming elections. Whatever floats his boat. His big gigantor Sam boat.

"I am most definitely unattached and most definitely do not have a Mommy complex," Dean says, trying to reassure the bartender of his availability, should she be interested in some company later on.

"Good to know," she says, her gaze perusing him a little closer now that she knows the situation.

Dean's in the midst of plying her with some story about how he was injured rescuing a child from a runaway car when the bartender slowly straightens up from where she's been leaning forward against the bar and simply says, "Incoming."

Dean lets out a groan at the sight of Beth and Nora coming through the main entrance, eyes roving as they search for their evening's prey. He tries his best to stay invisible, tries to slide off of his barstool with the intent of slinking back to the bathroom to figure out his next move, but he ends up running quite literally into a rather bear-ish man in a leather vest and bandana, his escape attempt brought to a halt when the man has to grab hold of his biceps to keep him from losing his balance on his crutches.

"Whoa, you okay there?" the man asks much too loudly for Dean's liking.

He casts a furtive glance towards the front of the bar, the last known location of the sisters, then gives a little start when Beth pops up directly next to him instead.

Dean lets his head hang for just a second before plastering a smile on his face. "Hey Beth. How's it going?"

The man lets go of Dean, glances at Beth, and makes his way back to an empty seat at the bar once Dean's assured him he's fine.

"What are you two doing here?" Dean asks Beth as Nora sidles up on his other side. His tone implies his disbelief at being tracked down by the sisters, but they take it as actual inquisitiveness.

"Oh, we were coming back from the city, saw that rendition of Wicked that's making the off-off Broadway circuits, and were just passing by when we caught site of your car sitting out in the parking lot.

Dean mentally slams his face into his palm, their failure to consider the Impala as their calling card the effective downfall of their hopeful evening.

He glances over at Sam's booth when he hears his brother's loud laugh cross the room, briefly considers shouting at him to "Save yourself!", but it's too late; Nora's making a beeline over to where Sam's still in deep discussion with his new friend. Dean can see the recoil of Sam's body the instant he catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye, head swiveling to catch Dean's glance.

Sam's table partner beats a hasty retreat and Sam heads directly for Dean, figures maybe their chances are better if they put up a united front. He really wishes he hadn't when he gets wind of the story Dean's trying to sell.

"We're gay. I mean, we're brothers, so we're not gay for each other. We're just gay brothers," Dean explains to Beth.

Sam's eyebrows skyrocket upwards to hide under his hairline as he contemplates the idiocy that is his brother.

Beth's eyes ping-pong between the brothers, the wheels in her brain practically smoking before she finally asks, "But what about the girls you were just hitting on?"

"What? Who?" Dean asks, a nervous laugh earning him a quick jab in the ribs by Sam.

Dean jabs back, a quick impromptu tussle taking the place of a verbal conversation, each poke and prod a substitution for the "WTF" and "What the hell was I supposed to do?" the boys are thinking at each other.

They quickly realize that their actions are garnering the interest of more than just the sisters, a few more of the barflies now also tuned in to the possible Love Spat going on between what may or may not be young brothers and their Sugar Mamas. Or gay brothers and their Beards.

Sam's not sure there's enough alcohol in the place to figure their way out of this one.

"We were exchanging recipes," he says, throwing a lame shrug at Dean when his brother just quirks an eyebrow at him.

Beth plants herself right in front of Dean, causing him to take a hasty step back on his crutches, and spends a decent half-minute studying him, her scrutiny beginning at his face and systematically running its way southwards.

She lets out a sigh, turning and shaking her head sadly at her sister. "I knew he was too pretty to be straight." Turning back to Dean, who's trying to figure out if he should be relieved or offended, she says with a resigned air, "My first husband was gay. He loved musicals too."

Dean shoots Sam a murderous look while Beth continues, deep in thought, "I think I still a have a pair of his assless chaps somewhere…"

Sam tries not to choke at the look on his brother's face. Sam knows for a fact that his brother's had some kinky dates in his rather sordid past; has, in fact, had to tell him to "shut up" and then had to spend the next several hours trying to scrub the rather horrific images of Dean's stories from his brain. But he's pretty sure none of his stories have involved assless chaps.

While Beth and Nora natter on about Beth's first husband and the signs they should have seen in both of the brothers (Sam's hair seems to be the giveaway for Nora), the boys begin to let out slow breaths of relief. Seems like this might just actually work.

The relief is short-lived, however, when the same burly biker meanders his way from his place at the bar and sidles up next to Dean, giving him a rather lascivious look up and down the length of his body before throwing him a wink. "I know I have a pair you could use," he says, taking a slow pull on his beer bottle without breaking eye contact with Dean. "Just your size too," he adds, bear-like paw attaching itself to Dean's backside.

 _Crap._

()o()o()o()o()

"Dude," says Sam when they finally get home that night. "What the hell?"

"What?" Dean says defensively. "I thought it made sense."

"Thought what made sense?"

"Bobby's suggestion."

Sam huffs out his exasperation, shoulders sagging in his brother's general direction. "Seriously man? You're gonna take advice on women from Bobby?"

Dean just shrugs, then scowls as he replays the evening's events. "What are you so worried about anyway? I got Beth and Biker Bear on my ass." He pauses and blanches when he recognizes the literality of his statement, then scowls again as he falls into the couch and rips off his brace in a show of frustration.

()o()o()o()o()

Tim looks at Dean closely, trying to read the truth to his statement.

"Family emergency, huh?"

Dean nods, putting enough reluctance into it to make sure Tim agrees to his plan. He shrugs and gives him a look meant to impress upon his therapist how much he wishes he didn't have to do this.

"What I can say? My Uncle's in a bit of crisis and Sam and I are all he's got left. If there were anyone else…" he trails off, willing the shine in his eyes to make itself noticeable to Tim.

"Alright," he says reluctantly. "You know you're close though right? Don't do anything to mess this up."

Dean gives him the Scouts Honor symbol, crossing his heart for good measure and thanks Tim for his hard work and dedication to his rehab process, promising to pick his therapy back up as soon as he makes it to his Uncle Bobby's place.

He has, in fact, finally been given the okay to unlock his brace when he's not walking or standing, allowing him to bend his knee for the first time (other than in the controlled exercises during PT) in weeks. He's got another week or so with the crutches, then will graduate to being brace-only for the remainder of his rehab stint.

But that's a few weeks too many in this town.

As Dean heads past the front desk, he gives the cute receptionist one last wink. She gives a genuine smile back and calls after him, "Let me know if you're ever back in the area!" Dean smirks to himself until she continues, "My brother's gay and I think he'd really like you!"

Dean mentally adds this town's name to his list of places he'll never return.

()o()o()o()o()

"Thanks man," Dean says sarcastically to Bobby as he makes his way into the older hunter's living room. He does a controlled fall onto the sagging couch, props his crutches next to him, and unlocks his knee brace, letting out a sigh before turning his attention back to Bobby.

The boys had high-tailed it out of town just as soon as Sam double checked to make sure Dean had the appropriate information to continue his rehab in the Sioux Falls area. And once Bobby had stopped laughing long enough to reassure them that they could crash at his place for a few weeks.

"Good to see you too," Bobby says to Dean gruffly. To Sam he says, "Any idea what he's talking about?'

"Apparently you told Dean to be gay," Sam says blandly.

"And?"

"Didn't go so well," Dean grumbles from across the room, the other two men still standing near the division between the kitchen and living room.

Bobby raises an eyebrow at Sam in a nonverbal request for additional information.

"Let's just say that Dean now has fans on both sides of the fence. And if he ever shows his face in that town again he's got several pairs of assless chaps ready and waiting for him."

Bobby gives a sputter, the beer tickling the back of his nose at its wayward trajectory while he works to keep from choking to death. When he's finally gotten himself under control he says, "Now there's an image I never wanted to see."

"Serves you right!" Dean pipes up, glad the uncomfortable imagery is now in the other court. "And by the way, your advice sucks."

The boys had talked amongst themselves, making a pact to never let the older hunter give them advice on anything other than the supernatural. Especially when there were women involved.

"Hey!" Bobby says, "I'll have you know that my advice is Grrreeaaaattt."

Dean's head snaps up at the way Bobby's drawn out the last word, eyes narrowing as he looks back and forth between his brother and Bobby, catching the smirk on both their faces.

"Sam," Dean growls out. "Tell me you didn't."

"Oh, he did," Bobby chortles. "In fact," he adds, "it's the outgoing message on my phone."

Dean scrambles through his pockets for his own phone, quickly hits the speed dial number assigned to Bobby, and listens, his face taking a mutinous turn when he hears his own vocalized musical stylings after the Beep.

"You little bitch," Dean says, scrambling up onto his crutches.

"What?" Sam shrugs innocently. "I said I'd delete it. And I did." He works his way farther from his brother, not sure that he's even be able to do anything to him while he's still on crutches but not quite wanting to take the chance. "I just may have sent it Bobby first. And emailed it to myself."

Sam takes the stairs two at a time and locks the bedroom door behind him, trying to figure out a way to sleep with one eye open for the rest of the foreseeable future.

()o()o()o()o()

"Forgot to tell you last night, what with all the excitement," Bobby says blandly. "This came for you." He hands an envelope to a sleepy Sam who's trying to wake up the brain cells that spent the better part of the overnight hours on high alert to his brother's shenanigans. Which never came.

Sam's eyes light up when he sees the return address, ripping it open and studying the enclosed pages, mouth splitting into a wide grin.

"Good job kid," Bobby says, clapping him on the shoulder after taking a peek at the papers while refilling Sam's coffee.

"What?" Dean asks, glancing between the two men as he crutches his way into the kitchen. "What I'd miss?"

Bobby raises his eyebrows and Sam gives a slight nod, giving him the go-ahead. "While you were busy whining and complaining about your knee and how bored you were," Bobby says, voice mimicking a whiny girl at the last part of the statement, "your brother here," he says, gesturing to Sam with his own coffee mug, "was busy getting a semester's worth of college credits."

"What?" Dean asks incredulously, his brain fighting between the disbelief that he had no idea what Sam had been doing for the past couple of months and the fact that his brother is this much closer to being a college graduate. _Dammit._

Although now that he thinks about it, it does make sense. Sam's endless hours on the computer and at the library. The single-minded focus and harried expressions (although, to be fair, sometimes that's just Sam). The insistence that he had "better things to do than keep your sorry ass entertained", as Sam had told him more than once.

Dean almost feels bad about giving his brother such a hard time during his convalescence.

Almost.

But not enough to forgive his brother's latest truth-bending loophole.

Too bad payback's a bitch. Just like Sam.

The End

A/N: These boys (and Bobby) were cracking me up. Hope you enjoyed them as well. Would love to hear your feedback!


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